


Maelstrom

by TheChimeraSculptress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheChimeraSculptress/pseuds/TheChimeraSculptress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock murders CAM, his mind, moreover his Mind Palace, reacts violently to his first cold blooded kill, and he begins to lose control over it, falling into a complete catatonic state.  He is forced to travel down, like Alice down the rabbit hole, deep into the dark depths of his subconscious, deeper than he has ever dared venture before, to battle the demons inside and stop the total corruption of the pristine hard-drive that took decades to refine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock strode into his brother's stately foyer, coat billowing out behind him, footsteps angrily pounding the pristine marble floor. “God, this place always feels like a damn museum!” 

He frowned his distaste, eyes sweeping the dark archaic wood panelling, the lavish paintings and mirrors in their ornate frames, the imposing grandfather clocks, and the grand sweeping staircase flanked by two Greek busts on spiralling plinths.

His brother snorted. “You deem anything larger than that hovel of yours, a museum.”

“Oh, come on, Mycroft.” Sherlock gestured theatrically around the room. “Is all this space justified...for one man?”

“One has to keep up appearances.”

“What's with all the suits of armour? I feel as if I'm being watched.”

“You are, Sherlock. Trust me, you are.”

Sherlock swirled around, facing his brother again. “Why can't I go back to Baker Street?”

Mycroft stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and angry. “Well let us make a little deduction, brother dear,” he threw back sarcastically. “Maybe because you _killed_ a man, _executed_ a man, at point blank range. I had to pull a harp's worth of strings to have you incarcerated _here_ for the time being.”

“You? Have to pull strings? I thought _you_ were the puppet master,” Sherlock mocked. “Besides, I did nothing that one of your lot hasn't already done!”

“But not with an audience, you fool. If you intended to kill Magnussen, you should at least have had the sense to do it behind closed doors.”

“I did not intend to kill him.”

“Why the gun, then?”

“Precautionary.”

Mycroft's features crumpled beneath the weight of concern. He took a deep breath. “Why, Sherlock?” he despaired. “Why did you do it?”

Sherlock turned away again, refusing to acknowledge the pity in his brother's eyes. “I was saving someone else the trouble!” Remembering Mary, he added: “It was only a matter of time before someone blew the bastard's head off.”

Four doors, of the same rich dark wood as the panelling, dotted the foyer. Sherlock slammed through the central one that stood at the foot of the staircase, knowing exactly where he was heading.

“I don't know whether I can get you out of this one,” Mycroft warned after him. “You do realise that?”

“Don't give me that bull. You practically run this country," Sherlock snarled back, the door slamming shut behind him. 

Hesitating in the empty foyer, silent now save for the low ticking of the grandfather clocks, a shiver ran down Mycroft's spine, chilling him to the bone. For the first time in his life he felt afraid, but not for himself. 

“Damn you, Sherlock,” he whispered wretchedly, hands clenching into fists, nails digging into his hands painfully. “I fear you have gone too far this time.”

Quickly recovering his composure, he squared his shoulders and made a beeline for one of the other doors, his mind firing into a whir of activity. He had calls to make, he realised wearily. _Lots_ of calls.


	2. Chapter 2

Satisfied his brother wasn't following him, Sherlock hurried across Mycroft's spacious sitting room, just as pompous and ostentatious as the foyer, towards one of two plush armchairs that were positioned either side of a cherub adorned fireplace. Sinking down into the soft expensive leather he gripped at the chair arms and closed his eyes.

He had managed to keep his emotions suppressed in his brother's presence but now he was alone he couldn't keep his hands from shaking. He gripped the chair arms tighter in an attempt to still them but it only redirected the tremors through his body instead. 

He took a deep breath. Another. Eyes squeezing tighter as his heart pounded, like a fist, against his rib cage. 

A gunshot exploded in his ears. Magnussen's face ricochet through his mind. Those eyes. Those dead eyes.

His whole body shook as he fought desperately for control, Mycroft's words echoing vehemently through his senses: _you killed a man, executed a man._

“And I would do it all over again,” Sherlock snarled beneath his breath, remembering what the smug bastard had done to John back at Appledore, and earlier, at the bonfire. What he had been doing to Mary, and no doubt, hundreds of others.

_In cold blood._

Sherlock cried out angrily, hunching forward, head in hands, squeezing, trying to silence his brother's words, telling himself that the parasite got what he deserved. 

_In cold blood._

Telling himself that there had been no alternative. That there had been no vaults. No real accessible vaults. No way out for John and Mary. 

_In cold blood._

Sherlock leapt up from his chair as if stung. “Get out of my head, Mycroft!”

He stumbled across to the fireplace, leaning heavily against the mantelpiece for support, knocking over a brass candlestick in his panic. It fell to the hearth with a melodic clatter and he would have left it there except he didn't want Mycroft to become aware of his present state of mind. As he scrambled to retrieve it, the cherub carvings mocked him with their angelic faces, as if to say, you're definitely not one of us now. 

Re-positioning the candlestick with unsteady hands, he finally met with his reflection in the large arched mirror that filled the chimney breast.

He barely recognised himself. 

Eyes bloodshot. Face disturbingly ashen. Forehead slick with sweat. 

_Get a grip, Sherlock. Get a grip._ His own voice now, as he quickly wiped his brow with the back of his hand, but like his face, it was almost unrecognisable, didn't sound like him at all.

He hadn't felt like this since Baskerville, back in the pub, after he thought he had seen that monstrous hound. 

Only that hadn't been real.

This was _very_ real. 

When the door suddenly opened and his brother peered in, he promptly straightened, feigning calm. 

“I thought I heard you call my name. Then there was a noise. I hope you haven't broken anything.”

“Don't you have people to call?” he snapped, not wanting Mycroft to see him like this.

“It's Christmas Day, Sherlock. I can only do so much. People are indulging in festivities.” The word rolled off his tongue like a bad taste. He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “Though Lady Smallwood was certainly pleased with the news. She couldn't say as much, of course, but I know a smile when I hear one. I'm sure she will do what she can.”

Sherlock turned from the fireplace and headed back towards his chair. He could feel his brother's eyes boring into him.

“Sherlock?” 

Damn it, Mycroft was coming over.

“Sherlock? Are you OK?” 

The genuine concern in Mycroft's tone made it difficult for Sherlock to swallow. His throat felt dry and raw as he attempted to activate his vocal chords. “I'm fine,” he dismissed curtly, sinking back into the chair. 

“You don't look it.”

“I said I'm fine!”

Mycroft huffed. “Have it your way.”

“Go make more calls.”

“You're shooing me out of my own sitting room?”

“Yes, piss off.”

Mycroft angrily turned on his heels.

“No, wait...”

Mycroft stood with his back to Sherlock, ramrod straight, patience wearing thin. “What?” he demanded.

“John...where is John?”

Mycroft glanced back at Sherlock, a little perplexed. “Returned to check on Mary, don't you remember? You sent him away. The poor man was quite torn between you both, though I'm sure they will soon be on their way over. To check up on you.” He smirked. “Ah, what a sweet trio you make.” He gave Sherlock the once over again. “Actually, I think it will be a good idea if he casts his medical eye over you when he gets here. You really do look terrible.”

Sherlock dragged a hand through his hair, the silky strands damp between his clammy fingers. “Well as you said, oh so eloquently, I have just killed a man, executed a man.”

Mycroft's eyes locked onto Sherlocks, the concern returning. “Yes, you have. And directing your pent up emotions towards me will not alter the fact. You have to deal with it.” He hesitated, and Sherlock was surprised to see a flash of uncertainty cross his face. “The first time is always the hardest.”

He quickly lifted his hand, silencing Sherlock before he could respond. “Don't, Sherlock. I do not speak from experience.”

“No, you just give the orders.”

Mycroft ignored him, retracing his steps back across the room, but he lingered in the doorway, eventually glancing back towards Sherlock, his face tight. “But that doesn't mean to say that you don't...” he faltered, as if he had said too much. He took a deep breath. “We are only human, Sherlock. Caring isn't an advantage, but sometimes...you run out of excuses.” 

Sherlock stared blankly at the door after Mycroft had gone. There wasn't much that surprised him, but his brother's words had left him pretty taken aback. For him to make such a confession, to reveal such...sentiment... It was proof, worrying attestation, that he was afraid. 

And that did not bode well for him.

He leaned back in his chair, hands slipping back into their earlier position, his long fingers clutching at the sides, though not quite so firmly now. He felt fractionally calmer but still needed to regain focus. He couldn't do that surrounded by Mycroft's oppressive antiquated world. 

Redbeard. He needed Redbeard. Just a few minutes would do. A few moments of respite. 

He closed his eyes again, quickly retreating inwards, eager to return to a world he was in control of. The staircase was always the first step down into his subconscious. The descent into his Mind Palace.

Meeting only darkness, he frowned irritably. Summoning the staircase was as natural to him as breathing. 

He focussed again, catching a teasing glimpse, a flash of white banister, before the darkness devoured it again. 

His brow knotted uneasily. 

What was happening?

Why couldn't he reach out to it?

He flinched back as a face began to materialised from the darkness. A face he seemed to have no control over. Was he slipping into sleep? Into dream?

He reached out, desperately, for the staircase, as the face moved closer.

Like the Cheshire cat slowly materialising in front of Alice, there was a hint of white...of teeth...the beginnings of a smile...a crazed smile...

And then it was gone, erupting into a blinding surge of searing light that scorched like fire as it tore through his consciousness, sucking the breath from him. His mind felt as if it were ripping, tearing apart like paper, and he clutched at his head again, crying out in pain as the light grew more and more intense until it was almost blinding, like he was staring into the sun and his irises were slowly burning. 

He could smell the burning.

_I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you._

Moriarty's voice was the last thing he remembered before the light was gutted like a candle flame and his world turned dark once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock blinked open his eyes. They felt hot and sensitive, reminding him of waking from a fever as a child. His mouth felt sandpaper dry. His throat stung, as if he had swallowed something sharp. As he slowly focused, the darkness lifted, pooling up into the shadows of a very high ceiling. Sherlock frowned as he stared into its seemingly infinite depths. 

An _unnaturally_ high ceiling. 

_Not_ his brother's sitting room. 

Assessing the situation further, he realised that he was laying, flat out, on a very uncomfortable floor. He squirmed and grimaced, as whatever it was that was digging into his back, began to dig harder.

Dragging himself up into a sitting position, he stared down at his makeshift bed, gaping at the layer of dust, rubble and splintered wood. 

Had there been an explosion? 

Was this, in fact, what was _left_ of his brother's sitting room?

He scanned the area, though it was difficult to make much out in the gloomy half-light. No. It didn't feel right. Where was Mycroft's furniture? Surely there would be the mangled remains of all that pretentious archaic finery? 

He glanced down at himself. And surely he would be injured? Apart from a little dust picked up from the floor, he appeared unscathed. No sign of any blood or damage to his coat or the rest of his clothes. Nor did he feel any pain besides a subtle throb behind his temples, and the soreness in his throat.

He stood up a little woozily, and was forced to stretch out his arms to steady himself. When he was satisfied that his balance was restored, he turned curiously, taking in more of the room.

He staggered back in shock.

A staircase loomed before him. _His_ staircase. The staircase that took him down into his Mind Palace. As real and as conspicuous as Mycroft's sitting room had been.

No. This can't be real. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and quickly opened them again.

The staircase remained.

Disorientated and bewildered, he dragged his hands through his hair, staring at the staircase in disbelief. This place was in his mind. Only in his imagination. Just like the rest of his Mind Palace. It was vivid, of course. He knew every inch of every room, down to the minutest detail, but it was still only in his mind.

Oblivious to his perplexed ruminations the staircase still waited. 

This can't be happening.

Drawing the line at pinching himself, he squatted to the floor, snatching up a piece of the debris that surrounded him. It felt solid, very real, in his hand. He squeezed, feeling the roughness of it, every indentation, every rut, against his skin. He pressed tighter until he felt pain. Tighter. Tighter.

He opened out his hand, allowing the chunk of rubble to drop to the floor with a dull thud, then slowly brought his fingers towards his face.

“Blood,” he gasped. “My blood.”

He quickly stood up again. 

A dream, he deduced, heart racing. It had to be a dream. He had been both mentally and physically exhausted at Mycroft's. He had simply nodded off. Sleep had overcome him before he could reach his Mind Palace.

He took a couple of steps closer to the staircase, carefully manoeuvring his way around the rubble, the smaller fragments crunching beneath his feet. He sniffed. The air smelt strange. Musty. Like a room that had been forgotten. That hadn't been opened in centuries.

A dream, maybe, but god, it felt so real. 

Sherlock felt a surge of awe, of elation, before it plummeted beneath the realisation that as real as it felt, as fascinating as it was being here, it was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The rubble, the shadows, the smell of decay...his Mind Palace wasn't like this. 

Reaching the top of the staircase, his hand lightly, almost affectionately, brushed the banister, leaving a smear of blood across the wood. 

It was wrong too. The wooden handrail was chipped and peeling; splintered, even broken in places. The elaborate white spindles were distorted, bent out of shape or missing altogether. Plaster was crumbling from the surrounding walls, some areas having collapsed in great chunks revealing scars of red brick behind. 

He peered down the stairs. They looked precarious and unsafe. The dust and debris flowed their length, piling high in the corners, covering some of them completely. After a dozen steps the darkness devoured them again so that he couldn't see beyond. 

He felt conflicting feelings of trepidation and excitement, as he wondered what lay beyond the darkness. Was his Mind Palace still down there? Or had that altered too?

This really didn't feel like a dream, but what alternative was there?

“It's not a dream, you know.”

Sherlock swung round in shock.

“Then again, maybe it is.”

Sherlock glared at him incredulously. “You're dead.”

Moriarty grinned from the shadows. He was still tightly bound in the straitjacket he had been wearing when Sherlock had last seen him in his Mind Palace, after Mary had shot him. His eyes were still sunken and framed by deep dark circles, his face still covered in sores and scabs. 

“I'm not dead here.”

“You should be in the room. The padded room.”

Moriarty smiled smugly, shaking his head. “Not any more, Sherlock. Everything's changed down here. Gone topsy turvy.” He stepped out of the shadows, eyes glinting gleefully, and Sherlock took an involuntary step back. 

Moriarty suddenly turned. “Untie me, won't you? There's a good man.”

“No.”

Moriarty twisted his head to frown back at Sherlock. “Oh, come on. Don't be a spoil sport.”

Sherlock discreetly groped for the handrail behind him. Still keeping his eyes on Moriarty, he took his first tentative step down the staircase. 

Moriarty watched feverishly, instantly forgetting about his bound arms. “So you're going down there then?” He started towards Sherlock. “Well, good luck with that.”

Sherlock had a flashback to Bart's roof. That had been the last thing Moriarty had said before blowing his brains out.

Reading his thoughts, Moriarty twisted again to proudly reveal the back of his head. “No hole here, see. I'm as real as you are.” 

Becoming increasingly disturbed by Moriarty's presence, but equally losing patience, Sherlock turned and hurried down the stairs as quickly as the debris would allow him. But he was forced to stop when the steps reached the puzzling wall of darkness. He strained his eyes to see through the pitch black but it was chillingly impenetrable. 

Moriarty descended the staircase surprisingly fast for a bound man. When he reached Sherlock's side he stared excitedly into the abyss. 

“It's down there, you know.”

Sherlock quickly looked at him. “What is?” 

“The thing you have to face.”

“What thing?”

“The _evil._ ”

“What evil?”

“Got to face it if you're ever going to get out of here.”

“What evil?” Sherlock demanded.

Moriarty shook his head. “Wouldn't be any fun if I told you that.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing that he was wasting his time. Instead, he stared back into the darkness, reaching out his hand, watching mesmerised, as it was swallowed by the abyss.

“Go on then. Don't be a scaredy cat.”

“What's through there?”

“Can't tell you that either.”

Sherlock frowned his irritation. “Then why are you here?”

A rather dopey look spread across Moriarty's face but it was tinged with madness. “You're me,” he sang happily. “You're me.” His expression changed in the blink of an eye, becoming serious and dangerous again. “And I'm you. Blah de blah de blah.”

Sherlock drew back his hand and crouched down, reaching into the abyss again but, this time, lower, feeling for another stair. 

There was nothing there, nothing but empty space. 

A shiver ran down his spine.

He looked back up at Moriarty who appeared transfixed by the darkness, a manic smile plastered across his face. “What is this place then, if it isn't a dream?”

Moriarty ignored him, tutting down at him instead. “Oh, just jump already! Stop being so _boring!_ ” 

“Jump?”

“It'll be just like old times.”

As Sherlock started to rise, Moriarty took him unawares, knocking into him uncannily hard. Sherlock tottered on the edge of the abyss, arms flailing, but before he could reach out for the handrail Moriarty nudged him again. 

“One little push and off you pop!”


	4. Chapter 4

“How could he do something so bloody stupid!”

“John!” Mary glanced warily across at the cab driver and then back at her husband. “You must have said that a hundred times since we left.”

“I'll say it a-bloody-gen then! How the hell could he do something so stupid!”

“John, please. Calm down.”

“Calm down? Calm bloody down?” He leaned in closer. “Sherlock blows a man's head off,” he whispered incredulously, “...and you expect me to calm down?” 

She reached across to squeeze his hand. “He did it for us.”

“He did it for you,” he threw back, still beneath his breath.

Mary immediately drew back her hand and John cursed inwardly, realising his mistake.

He re-claimed her hand, squeezing apologetically. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to come out the way it did. I know that he did it for us.”

Mary remained stony faced. “But my past didn't help matters.”

“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I'm just...” he searched her face for understanding. “I'm just so hyped up right now, so shocked, so angry, so...scared...that I feel as if I'm about to explode. I don't know what to do. I don't know how Sherlock is going to get out of this one. Christ, he not only cold-bloodedly killed a man, he did it in front of a bloody audience!”

Mary locked her eyes onto his. “Sometimes...” She bit her lip hesitantly. “Sometimes there's just no other alternative.”

“What? Having an audience?” John baulked.

Mary frowned. “You know what I meant.”

John dropped his head back against the leather seat and stared anxiously up at the taxi roof. “He's changed,” he confessed. “I can't explain how exactly but whatever he got up to during those two years he pretended to be dead...something has hardened him. He's tried to keep it hidden. Ever since he's been back, he's been overcompensating. Pretending to be...I dunno...softer. He doesn't think I can see it, but I'm not blind...or stupid.”

“Has he never told you what he got up to?” Mary asked, surprised.

“Just said he was working his way through Moriarty's network. He didn't elaborate. He'd always change the subject. Hell, he's never even told me how he managed to jump off Barts and not kill himself.”

John tried to escape the memories, but the terrible images of Sherlock plummeting from the roof filled his mind. His friend's broken body covered in blood. Knowing, in hindsight, that it hadn't been real, didn't change a thing. Something had torn apart inside him that day, leaving scars that might never heal. He said that he had forgiven Sherlock, and most of the time he convinced himself that he had, but sometimes he lay awake at night wrestling with the possibility that a part of him might never truly be able to. 

“You think he might have killed like this before?”

John turned his gaze back to Mary. “I don't know. I hope not. People have been...killed before. It isn't as if that hasn't happened. But...how he dealt with Magnussen...it was like he just snapped...flipped...I've never seen Sherlock lose it before.” He looked at her desperately. “Never. He's always so...calm and collected.”

“Cool and collected,” Mary tried to joke, forcing a smile, but when she could see that her attempt at humour wasn't appreciated, she added: “Magnussen was a vile, evil, little man.”

John remembered him back at Appledore, flicking at his face so fucking smugly. He had been half tempted to shoot the bastard himself. 

“Yeah, he was,” he seethed angrily. “But I wish to god it had been someone else who had pulled the damn trigger.” He cut in before Mary could respond with what he knew she was going to say. “Someone other than you.”

At that moment he registered the cab slowing. He turned to glance out of the window. “We're here.”

Mary leaned over him to gape at the grand building. “Bloody hell.”

“Those were my sentiments exactly when I was first invited to Mycrofts.”

They climbed out of the cab and John paid the fare, shocked by the price until the cabbie reminded him that it was Christmas Day.

The street was deserted as they walked up to Mycroft's imposing front door, the residents of Pall Mall safely tucked up in their expensive homes, no doubt opening equally expensive presents. John turned to Mary sadly. “Christmas bloody Day. Of all the bloody days.”

Mary regarded him affectionately, though her eyes were sad too. “You've a fortune to put into the swear box today, you know.”

He managed a chuckle, but it was half-hearted, feigned for her benefit. He reached across for her hand. “Thanks for coming.” He stared down at the gentle swell of her stomach, still finding it incredible that his child was growing inside her. “You sure you're up to it.”

“'course. I wouldn't miss having a nose around Mycroft's place for anything.”

They alighted the steps and John rang the doorbell.

They waited.

And waited.

John rang again.

The front door was wrenched open just as he was ringing a third time.

Mycroft glowered down at them. “Why didn't you just keep the bell pressed and have done with it.”

“Butler's day off?” John couldn't resist saying.

“Obviously,” Mycroft countered silkily.

“I was joking, you know.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “So was I.” 

They followed him into the foyer, Mary mouthing wow across to John, but he had other things on his mind. 

“Where is he?”

“Sitting room.”

John started for the door.

“John – wait.”

John glared back at Mycroft impatiently. 

“I'm worried about him.”

John stared at him as if he were mad. “Well, of course you are. We all are.”

“No, you misunderstand me, John. Not because of the shooting, though that remains my utmost concern. I'm talking about Sherlock himself.”

John felt a chill run through him. “What do you mean?”

“His health, his state of mind. He looks terrible and is acting strangely...” Pre-empting John's reply he quickly added: “more strangely than usual.”

John was touched by Mycroft's concern, but had never doubted the man's affection for his younger brother, however desperately he tried to keep it suppressed. “You want me to check him over.”

Mycroft nodded gratefully. “Please.”

John made for the door again. “Though he probably won't like it.”

Mycroft sighed. “Probably. He has already told me to piss off out of my own sitting room.”

“That sounds like Sherlock,” John smirked, relieved, as he pushed open the door.

Sherlock sat in one of Mycroft's resplendent armchairs, hands resting upon its sides, head slightly bowed.

“Too bloody calm and collected,” John murmured beneath his breath, expecting some frantic pacing at least. 

As he drew closer he noticed that Sherlock's eyes were closed. Was he asleep? How on earth could he sleep at a time like this? Or was he in that Palace place...his Memory Palace, or whatever the hell he called it. 

“Sherlock?”

When Sherlock didn't respond, John frowned, though the first trickle of unease filtered into his frustration.

“Sherlock?” he repeated, louder now, prepared for Sherlock's anger at being torn from his important deliberations. He hated people anywhere near him when he was in his Memory Palace.

When Sherlock still didn't answer, the trickle of unease surged into a full blown torrent, alarm bells clanging in his head. He hurried to his friend's side, urgently tapping his shoulder. “Sherlock?”

When Sherlock slumped to one side, his left hand sliding limply down from the chair arm, John's stomach lurched. “Christ, Sherlock!”

He flew into action, leaning him back against the chair, gently but efficiently prising open his eyelids to check his pupils, before quickly reaching down for his wrist to take his pulse.

Still clasping Sherlock's arm, which felt disturbingly cool to the touch, he turned to where Mary and Mycroft watched in shock. “Someone call an ambulance! Now!”


	5. Chapter 5

Bracing himself, expecting to plummet, rather like Alice into Wonderland, Sherlock was surprised but very relieved to find that the stairs did, in fact, continue on, that the abyss had simply been a trick; a very convincing illusion.

He landed heavily onto the next stair, having not anticipated a solid surface so soon, the impact jarring up through his body, making his stomach flip and his teeth knock painfully. But he recovered instantly, quickly turning to glance back up.

The wall of darkness had gone and the top of the stairs were clearly visible, though still in their dilapidated state. He searched the shadows for Moriarty but to his added relief, he appeared to have vanished.

Though for how long, Sherlock wondered irritably. He had a feeling that it wouldn't be the last time he'd run into his psychotic nemesis.

Shaking the troubling thought away, he began to descend the staircase, picking his way carefully down through the rubble, forced to jump at particularly precarious stages where two or three steps had disappeared altogether and only blackness could be seen beneath their gaping holes.

Though it was disturbing, even torturing, to see how derelict his Mind Palace had become, he couldn't deny that there was a part of him fascinated by the change, wondering what had caused it, and moreover, why?

Moriarty talked about an evil he had to face. If the man could even be believed, what evil was he talking about? Magnussen? Moriarty himself? Or someone entirely different?

Or was it even a someone? Maybe it was a something.

Blinking out of his deliberations he frowned, realising that the staircase was changing, narrowing. Transforming into a place that he did not recognise, that was not a part of his Mind Palace.

The debris thinned out until it disappeared completely. The walls closed in tighter, the stairs steepening, wood and plaster dissolving into stone, until he was descending something that resembled a confined castle staircase. Steadying himself against the wall sides as he turned with the sharp spiralling curve until another half dozen steps finally brought him to the bottom.

He found himself staring down a long narrow corridor, dimly lit by crude lampshades dotted at intervals along another high ceiling. Stone walls had returned to plain plaster again, and like the staircase walls, were also crumbling, falling into disrepair, at least what he could see of it.

The corridor would have been a great deal wider if it hadn't been so curiously stock piled with furniture on either side. The immense clutter had created a second outer wall that made the atmosphere terribly claustrophobic. It reminded him of an old dusty storeroom that had become seriously neglected over time.

His sniffed. The mustiness was more intense here. He deduced it might even be the source, having drifted up the staircase. There was a pervading dampness in the air. And a coldness that he hadn't felt at the top of the stairs, but was now beginning to slip beneath his coat and run icy fingers between his shirt buttons.

Ignoring it, he squatted down, flicking his coat back out of his way, and sweeping his hand lightly across the threadbare carpet. It was wet to the touch though not saturated. He rubbed his fingertips together studiously, detecting more than just water. He quickly searched his pocket, hoping to find his magnifier, but it was not there. He sniffed again. Definitely traces of mould, a hint of wood rot...and what else...?

He shuddered and quickly stood up again, refusing to acknowledge the faint suggestion of decomposition.

Focusing back on the corridor, he turned pensively, circling, scrutinising the area with an intense stare.

There didn't appear to be any windows, although it was almost impossible to see anything through the jumble of objects so tightly wedged together. The furniture was piled almost as high as the ceiling - heavier items like wardrobes, sofas, dressers and trunks at the bottom, with lighter chairs, tables, bookcases and lamps balancing precariously on top. It looked as if it all might topple and collapse at any moment.

Most of it appeared to be expensive, antique, the kind of décor his brother favoured. In fact, he recognised several pieces from Mycroft's house.

He stepped closer and his chest tightened when he spotted something else, something not belonging to his brother.

His grandmother's cherished Art Deco Tiffiny lamp.

The dear woman, of whom he had been very fond, had died not long after Redbeard had been put down. Losing them both so close together had been very traumatic for his child-self. Their deaths had changed something inside him. Given him a sudden awareness of mortality. Triggered a need for control, for focus, for the truth, whatever that truth may be. This, in turn, had manifested into a passion for solving puzzles, of finding answers. Literally overnight, the boy who had wanted to be a pirate, had decided instead, that he wanted to become a detective. Strange, how the human mind worked. That being exposed to death at such a young age, had stimulated a desire to solve deaths, to explain what his child-self had not been able to fully understand.

He reached out to fondly caress the lamp, remembering how fascinated he had been of the coloured glass as a child, loving how the light filtered through it like a kaleidoscope.

There were more. Other familiar items. Warming and nostalgic. Furniture, paintings, knickknacks, scientific apparatus, even toys. Belonging to his grandparents, parents, his childhood, university days...even Baker Street.

He felt a little stab inside when he noticed John's laptop resting upon the inside seat of an upturned chair. He reached for it affectionately but frowned when he saw that it was covered by a thick layer of dust. He angrily blew it away before carefully easing it open. Though he expected it, he felt disappointed that the screen was blank.

Closing it again, he returned it to its original position, perplexed and frustrated.

Why was it here? Why was all of this stuff here? Mangled so heartlessly together? What did it mean?

Strewn amongst the clutter were also hundreds of dusty books, some old, some new, some piled together, others more isolated. He reached for one of the closer volumes, recognising it from Baker Street, but flicking through it he was taken aback to discover no content whatsoever, only a succession of blank empty pages. He promptly replaced it, reaching for another, only to find exactly the same peculiarity.

Staring broodingly down at the cover he tried to make sense of it, his brow knotting beneath the strain of trying to fathom the inconceivable. The words from his website echoed mockingly through his mind:

_I observe everything. From what I observe, I deduce everything. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth._

He hurled the book to the floor, hating to admit defeat. How could he eliminate the impossible when this crazy world was impossible. His patience was wearing thin. He was getting only questions when he wanted some answers.

He took a calming breath.

This couldn't be his Mind Palace. His Mind Palace was ordered, methodical. He was the one in control.

It couldn't be a dream. It just felt too damn real. A lucid dream, perhaps?

He shook his head. No. Every fibre of his being was screaming out that this was no dream.

He almost wished Moriarty would return with his riddles. As much as he hated riddles, as much as Moriarty tested his patience to the limits, it would be something to work on, to try to decipher.

With a sigh of resignation, he walked on, noticing numerous stuffed taxidermy animals and birds peeking out from between the mangle of furniture, their beady-black eyes staring at him sinisterly. He wasn't exactly sure of their origin, though the board mounted fish, with their blank stares made him think of Magnussen.

To add the final insult to his intelligence he eventually met with a dead end, though a huge grandfather clock, one he recognised from Mycroft's foyer, stood against the blocking wall. Strangely he hadn't registered the ticking until now.

_Dum – Fugit – Umbra – Quiesco_

The Latin words were etched across the top of the clock face in fancy lettering.

_The shadow moves though I be at rest._

He instantly knew their meaning because the words were inscribed on the top of an impressive old sundial in his parent's garden. As a child he had asked Mycroft what they meant, but his brother wouldn't tell him, called him stupid. His mother had eventually translated for him but the incident had prompted him to start learning Latin much earlier than his brother had.

_The shadow moves though I be at rest._

Why had those words suddenly returned to haunt him? Was their any significance in their meaning or was it just another jolt back into his past, provoked by all of the familiar surroundings?

On the sundial the shadow meant time, derived from the sun, it's movement, as the day slipped by. But down here, could the shadow be the evil that Moriarty spoke of?

Then again, he was hardly at rest, was he? He was clearly moving, exploring this bizarre anomaly in his Mind Palace.

Unless...this actually was a dream, and he was asleep.

The pendulum rocked steadily back and forth, its motion mildly hypnotic. Shaking away the sensation, Sherlock dragged a hand through his hair in exasperation, scowling back the way he had come, wondering what he could do now. Returning up the stairs would achieve nothing.

As he started to re-trace his steps, the dead eyes of the stuffed birds snared his attention again. When one of them suddenly blinked he stepped back in surprise, staring in astonishment as it cocked its head to one side and lifted a claw experimentally.

In the next instant it flew at him with a piercing shriek, triggering his own cry as he lifted his arms protectively in front of his face. He stumbled back into the wall of furniture in shock, cursing as a chair leg stabbed him painfully in the back. He turned sharply, his impetuous movement upsetting whatever was piled up behind him. As it all came collapsing down with an almighty crash, he fled for the safety of the stairs.

The bird appeared to have been buried beneath the carnage, though in hindsight he accepted that he hadn't actually felt it attack, not so much as a brush of feather. It had been more the shock than anything. It made him suspect another illusion.

He stared rather guiltily down the hall at the pile of damaged furniture that was now jamming the corridor. Amongst the splintered wood and torn fabric was his grandmother's smashed lamp. The dagger shaped shards of coloured glass glinted menacingly, no longer warm and nostalgic.

But as his gaze lifted, a satisfied smile tugged at his lips when he realised that in falling, the furniture had partly exposed a door. A door that he either hadn't noticed before or must have been hidden from his view. Incited by the discovery, he hastened back and quickly began clearing it.

It was only when he was down to a last cumbersome sofa that he registered the sound of crying. Soft, barely audible sobs, coming from the other side of the door. He hurriedly dragged the sofa from its path and listened more attentively.

His eyes widened in surprise, though concern quickly flooded his face.

"Molly?"


	6. Chapter 6

John turned away from Sherlock's prone, unresponsive body lying in the hospital bed. Being a doctor, he was used to such sights, but he didn't like seeing his friend connected up to all the tubes and monitors. Not only was it a painful reminder of when Sherlock had been shot by Mary and almost died for real, but the scene somehow de-humanised Sherlock again, made him appear part machine, and John was proud of the fact that Sherlock was no longer the machine he used to be.

He frowned across to where his wife sat in one of the rigid hospital chairs.

"This doesn't make sense."

She watched him sympathetically.

"Technically, after six hours of unconsciousness, the patient is in a coma. But nothing is wrong with him. Nothing whatsoever. All his vital signs are running perfectly normal. There's no injury, no trauma to the brain or anywhere else. They've tested everything."

"Could it be self induced?"

"The only way you can induce a coma is through drugs, and he's clean."

Mary glanced across at Sherlock. "But there has been trauma."

"What do you mean?"

"Not physical, but mental. Maybe the shooting has traumatised him psychologically."

"You can't self induce a coma without drugs."

"But this is Sherlock. He's not your average man with your average brain. You've joked about how he can zone out for hours on end. What if he's taken it a step further?"

This stopped John short. Mary was right. But it wasn't just hours, Sherlock could zone out for days if he wanted to. The only difference now was that they were unable to shake him out of it. John would have happily endured one of Sherlock's sulks or tantrums if he could.

He folded his arms, perplexed. "But to what end?"

Mary shrugged. "To come to terms with what he did."

John took one last look at his friend and then slumped in the chair beside his wife. "Any other person and I'd say that theory was crazy. Impossible. But with Sherlock...Christ, who knows."

"John..." Mary started tentatively and John gave her a wary look.

She took a steeling breath. "The first time is the hardest."

She hesitated, gauging his reaction, and she could see conflict in his eyes, knowing he was torn between wanting her to continue and wanting her to stop. Her past may have been swept under the carpet, but it still lurked stubbornly in the background of their lives.

A subtle twitch of John's brow, the merest hint of a nod, gave her the green light to continue.

"I didn't exactly react like Sherlock has, but after my first..." she faltered, swallowing uneasily. "Well, I was physically ill. Sick for days, unable to keep any food down. I couldn't sleep, alternating between the sweats and the shivers. And when I did finally get some shut eye I had horrible nightmares."

John's face was hard, unreadable, but she was reassured when he reached out his hand. She squeezed it gratefully.

"They prepare you, of course. Intensively. But when it finally happens all of that just goes out the window. You call me and Sherlock psychopaths, but in reality we're not, you know. Far from it. One of the definitions of a psychopath is diminished empathy and remorse. I've never lost either of those, John. I've just had to bury them deep."

John's gaze dropped down to their clasped hands, to the glints of their matching wedding rings, still shiny-new. Then to the swell of her stomach, to where their growing child slept and waited. He loved Mary more than anything but sometimes the intensity of that love frightened him. Sometimes he felt there was a time bomb ticking inside his wife and, at any second, it could explode and he could lose her. Maybe she was right, and she and Sherlock weren't psychopaths exactly, but they were damn well cut from the same cloth.

He met her eyes again. "So you're saying that this...this state Sherlock is in...this coma...is his body's reaction to shooting Magnussen?"

Mary nodded sadly. "I think so."

"And do you think he's going to..." John glanced back across to Sherlock hopefully. "Come out of it?"

Mary squeezed his hand again. "I think so. We just need to give him some time."

John stood up and returned to Sherlock's bedside. His tired eyes roamed Sherlock's face, desperate to detect some anomaly, however subtle, a movement behind the lids, a twitch of the mouth. "Why does he never do anything the normal way?"

Mary joined him, slipping her hand around his waist, caressing his hip soothingly. "Because he's Sherlock?"

John sighed. "I swear, I've aged twenty years since knowing him."

"Good job I like older men then."

Her hand lowered and she pinched his bottom playfully through his jeans. "Want a coffee?"

"Yeah, that would be great, thanks."

After Mary had left the room, John checked all of the monitors and tubes for the umpteenth time, and re-read the progress report at the end of the bed. The silence, save for the inanimate machinery, was almost unbearable. He stood, staring down at Sherlock, half tempted to slap him across the face like Molly had done at Barts, to do something, anything, to try to wake him up.

The light was unusually bright in the hospital room, some rare winter sunshine flooding in through the tall window, spilling across the bed, making Sherlock's pale countenance look even paler. He almost looked as if he were set in stone, like a statue.

"Wake up, you bastard," John whispered affectionately, shaking the unsettling notion away. "Stop being such a drama queen. It's getting old now."

_Please, Sherlock. Please, wake up. Don't do this to me again._

Sherlock remained motionless, offering nothing to quell John's mounting fears, to settle the sick feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. With another sigh, he returned numbly to his seat and waited for Mary.

*******************************

Sherlock wrenched open the door, rushing into an exceptionally bright room. He blinked painfully, forced to shield his eyes from the intense light flooding in through a large arched window to his right.

In startling contrast to the cluttered corridor, the room was large and perfectly square, completely empty of furniture, and had exposed floorboards and stark white walls. Neither was there any sign of the damage so glaringly evident in the previous two locations. In fact, the room looked immaculate. The floorboards glossy with varnish. The paint on the walls smooth and unblemished. It looked clean and sterile, almost like a hospital room.

Sherlock searched the light for Molly, alarmed to discover her tiny form huddled in the corner furthest from the window. She was wearing her lab coat but her feet and legs were bare, making her appear somehow vulnerable, even fragile, like a child. She had them pulled tightly into her chest, her arms wrapped protectively around them, her face hidden, pressed into her knees.

Her body shook with crying.

"Molly?" Sherlock approached her hesitantly, uncertain how to respond, how to act. He had never seen her like this. Upset, yes, of which he now regretted, but never so...broken...

It was only as he moved closer that he noticed her hair was matted and dirty, and her lab coat was splattered with blood. A chill ran through him.

"Molly...?"

When she finally looked up, the sight of her knocked the breath from him. It felt as if someone had slammed him across the chest with a cricket bat.

An angry purple bruise covered most of her left cheek, extending up into a black eye so swollen that it had half closed. Above it, a small but deep gash sliced through her eyebrow.

"My god, Molly," he whispered hoarsely. "What happened?" Conflicting emotions flared up within him, a fierce desire to protect, swiftly overpowered by the urgency to avenge. Anger surged through him. "Who did this to you?"

But as he knelt down beside her, he was disturbed to see her face fill with terror.

"No! Stay away from me!"

Sherlock flinched back in bewilderment as she recoiled from him and stumbled to her feet in a panic.

"Oh god, please...please..." she begged, her face glistening with tears, "please don't hurt me..."

He stared after her in a daze as she bolted across the room like a frightened animal, but confusion turned to concern as she neared the opposite wall with no indication of slowing.

Quickly standing, he vainly reached out his hand. "Molly, stop!"

He watched in stunned silence as she disappeared through it like a ghost.

For a few long moments he found himself frozen to the spot, shock holding him in a vice's grip as his eyes swept the empty wall in disbelief. Her words, even more than her incredible exit, pained him in ways he couldn't begin to assimilate. The mere suggestion that he could ever hurt her. Would ever hurt her.

"Was it something you said?"

With lightning speed, Sherlock seized Moriarty by the throat and pinned him up against the wall. "What have you done to her!?" he demanded, eyes blazing dangerously, face dark with rage.

"Hey, don't look at me! My hands are tied!"

Sherlock's gaze snapped down. Realising that Moriarty was still tightly bound in his grimy straitjacket, he released him roughly. "Who did it? Who hurt her?"

Moriarty smirked at him slyly. "Untie me and I'll tell you."

Sherlock had no intention of ever untying him. He didn't trust him in real life so he certainly didn't trust him wherever here was.

Moriarty shuffled closer. "Pleeeaaasssee."

Sherlock slammed him back against the wall. "Tell me!"

Moriarty rolled his eyes, unfazed. "For all that brain power you can be spectacularly ignorant."

Sherlock pressed him harder into the wall. "Talk sense!"

"Down here?" Moriarty slowly shook his head as his mouth stretched back into a wide grin. "Nah. We're all mad here. No sense whatsoever..."

Sherlock's hands itched to sweep up to Moriarty's throat and squeeze. The desire pulsed through him like a mantra, telling him to kill, kill, kill. It proved so overwhelming that he quickly released his nemesis and shakily stepped away.

"You still haven't worked it out?" Moriarty mocked, voice low and calm, sounding almost sane. "Iceman was right. Stupid. So so stupid."

"We're in your head you doofus!" he roared in his next breath, making Sherlock step back with a start.

"You said this wasn't a dream!"

"Well, technically...it isn't."

"So how can this be in my head, if it isn't a dream?"

Moriarty ignored his question. "In. Your. Stupid. Head. And we're all going to die unless you..."

"...face the evil..." Sherlock finished for him, remembering what Moriarty had said on the stairs.

Moriarty nodded excitedly.

"And it's not you?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Been there, done that."

"You could be lying."

Moriarty shrugged nonchalantly. "Could be. I'm so changeable, after all."

Sherlock surveyed the room again. It suddenly dawned on him that there was no other door except the one he had just come through. It appeared he had reached a dead end for the second time.

"So you've finally noticed," Moriarty snorted. "I must say that your powers of deduction are severely lacking down here." He leaned forward, eyes black as night and just as insidious. "One clue, Sherlock. One little riddle...since I know how much you love riddles."

"I'm listening..."

To Sherlock's irritation his nemesis slowly began to fade away.

"What clue?" he demanded, as Moriarty became more and more translucent until there was no longer a solid body to pin against the wall.

When there was nothing but two dark glints where his eyes had been, Moriarty's disembodied voice slowly recited. "In a world of locked rooms...the man with the key is king."

Sherlock waited for the punchline. For the _and you should see me in a crown._ But it never came.

Moriarty had gone.


	7. Chapter 7

"So...we simply wait."

John turned with a start. Mycroft stood in the hospital room doorway, a grim smile upon his face.

Hands deep in his pockets, John glanced back at Sherlock. "I thought you had left."

Mycroft strode into the room. "I had people to see."

John guessed what people he was referring to. "They're called doctors," he snapped defensively.

Mycroft shrugged his indifference.

"What did they say?"

"I told you...we wait."

Mycroft joined him and together, they stared down at Sherlock.

"Nothing else?" John pressed hopefully.

"Nothing."

There was a long drawn out silence before John added: "Has this ever happened before?"

"What? Sherlock becoming catatonic?"

"It's gone way passed that now. This is the initial stages of a coma."

"Don't underestimate my brother."

John watched Mycroft expectantly.

"Come on, John. We have both lived with him. We both know what he is like. How he can spend hour upon hour sitting in one position, ignoring any external stimuli. _Zoning out,_ as you all like to call it."

"This is a bit different to that."

"Is it, John? Is it really?"

John regarded him thoughtfully. "Mary said pretty much the same thing."

"She is a smart woman."

Their eyes locked and John's heart skipped a beat. There were undertones to Mycroft's words that alarmed him. Did he know about Mary? About A.G.R.A? Sherlock hadn't told him. At least, he had assured John that he hadn't. But there could be no denying that Mycroft had eyes and ears everywhere...

"Coffee!"

Eerily on cue, Mary suddenly appeared in the doorway holding aloft two steaming Styrofoam cups. She hesitated warily, her eyes flicking from John, to Mycroft, and back to John again. "Everything OK?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and John quickly looked away. He hurried across to Mary and relieved her of one of the drinks. "Coffee. Great. Thanks."

Mycroft grimaced, sniffing in distaste. "There is nothing worse than the smell of hospital coffee."

Mary smirked, her composure returning. "So you don't want a cup?"

"Heaven forbid! It is the perfect excuse to take my leave."

"You're not going to stay?" John asked curtly. He knew that the Holmes brothers were constantly at loggerheads. Truth be told, it would seem strange if they weren't. But he was also aware of a genuine, albeit deeply suppressed affection, lurking beneath all the bickering and competitiveness.

Mycroft scowled. "And do what? Right now, I will be of more use to Sherlock on the other end of a telephone."

John had been so worried about Sherlock that he had completely forgotten about Magnussen. The sick feeling in his stomach intensified. "Christ, yes. Of course."

Mycroft sauntered passed him and Mary. "But call me at the slightest change," he threw over his shoulder. "And I mean the slightest change, John."

A ghost of a smile shivered across John's lips and he nodded, satisfied. "Will do."

Mycroft stopped in the doorway, glancing back at John again. "And to answer your question, yes, Sherlock has done this before. Though not for years. As a child he could alternate between extreme excitement and hyperactivity, and alarming states of stupor, which today, has mellowed into the zoning out state we are more familiar with. Our parents were concerned, of course, and all manner of tests were done. Much to their relief, nothing untoward was diagnosed, though exactly what was the matter with him remained inconclusive."

"What do you think was wrong with him?"

"Nothing. Simply the consequences of possessing a brilliant mind. In fact, I believe the construction of his infamous Mind Palace began as soon as his child's mind could begin to comprehend the concept, which, in Sherlock's case, was at a very young age. His stupors were a result of this internal exploration."

"And the hyperactivity?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Sherlock has always been rather...overzealous. It is simply part of his DNA."

"Overzealous is putting it mildly," John returned with a roll of his eyes.

Mycroft turned again. "But I must away. While Sherlock battles the internal damage, I must attend to the damage he has caused in the real world."

John watched him stride briskly down the corridor in his immaculate suit, and disappear around a corner.

Mary lowered herself carefully back into her chair, hand resting upon her stomach protectively. She patted the chair beside her, gesturing for John to sit down.

"C'mon, John," she urged. "You look fit to drop."

When he didn't respond she added: "Doctor's wife's orders."

With a small smile he finally obeyed.

They sipped their coffees reflectively as they watched Sherlock's still body, the rhythmic sound of the monitors quietening now, becoming background noise as their ears adjusted to it.

John wrinkled his nose. Mycroft was right. The coffee tasted disgusting. But the hot liquid served its purpose, helping to relieve him of some of the coldness inside. His fears grew with every passing second. He knew that time was of the essence when it came to coma victims. That the longer the patient remained in such a state, the more detrimental it became.

"I wonder what's going on in that brilliant mind of his?" Mary eventually broke into the silence, her tone soft and facetious in an attempt to lighten the tension that had gathered in the room.

John blinked back his emotions, the back of his throat burning and it wasn't due to the coffee. "Hopefully some brilliant plan to wake up."

***********************************

Sherlock scrubbed a hand across his face.

Not a dream...yet still in his head? What the hell was he supposed to deduce from that?

What was glaringly obvious was that none of this was real. In the real world people didn't run through walls and dissolve away before your eyes. He had rather suspected that from the start.

Again, he thought back to the last thing he remembered before finding himself at the top of the staircase. He had been in Mycroft's sitting room. There had been pain, terrible pain, his mind feeling as if it were tearing apart. There had been blinding light then too...

He suddenly had an unsettling thought.

Had he died?

Was this in fact, death?

And this exceptionally bright room a metaphor for that clichéd white light one was supposedly drawn to?

But what about the strange corridor of furniture...of personal objects...of memories...was that supposed to be the bizarre equivalent of his life flashing before his eyes?

A little bit slow in his case, he thought, bemused. More trudging than flashing.

He recalled a case way back when he had first met John. What had John called it on his blog? A Study In Pink? Where a cab driver had been forcing people to commit suicide with a twisted game of chance using two identical pills. All orchestrated by Moriarty of course, but the cabbie had nothing to lose. He had had a brain aneurysm that could have killed him at any time.

A brain aneurysm might explain the sudden pain in his head, followed by his blackout.

He knew that a small, unchanging aneurysm would produce few, if any symptoms. Though before the rupture of a larger aneurysm, one might experience a sudden and severe headache, vision impairment, nausea, vomiting and loss of consciousness.

He had only been affected by two out of the five. And surely he would have had some other warning signs if that was the case, however subtle?

He walked wearily across to the window. The light was so blinding he couldn't see through the glass at any scenery beyond. There was only pure unadulterated whiteness. His Mind Palace didn't usually have windows. He was never interested in any outside stimuli. Only the contents within the rooms. The important data. His brain was his hard-drive, not a place to sight-see.

He reached out a hand to touch the glass. Despite the warmth of the light, the pane was icy cold against his fingertips.

With a frown he quickly snatched his hand back, clenching it into a fist.

No. He refused to believe this was death. The atheist within him baulked at the very idea. Besides, no one had attacked him in Mycroft's house. He had felt no pain from any blunt instrument, or sudden gunshot wound. Just the pain inside his head.

Drawing his hands up into a prayer position, lightly resting his fingertips against his lips, he began to pace the room, his mind firing into postulation. He narrowed his eyes. So, he decided firmly...not dead...not dreaming...

But evidently not awake either.

He paced quicker, his frustrations mounting again.

Not dead. Not dreaming.

Not dead. Not dreaming.

_Narrow it down!_

He lurched at the sound of his brother's voice, swirling around, wide eyes sweeping the empty room.

"Mycroft?!"

There was no answer.

"Mycroft? Where are you?"

His eyes flitted frantically around the empty room.

_Narrow it down._

Startled, he took an involuntary step backwards. Mycroft's voice had been right beside him that time, a mere whisper in his ear. But there was no sign of his brother.

A shiver ran down his spine.

Maybe he had gone insane.

He remembered Moriarty's words. We're all mad here. 

"No!" he snarled at the room. "Not dead. Not dreaming. And definitely not mad." He dragged his hands through his hair, his fingers tightening around the long strands. "Think, Sherlock. Think!"

He resumed his pacing, his deliberating, determination and resolve rising to quash his frustrations.

He recited Moriarty's riddle in his head.

_In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king._

_In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king._

_The man with the key is king._

His shoulders slumped forward as he dropped his head into his hands, straining to think.

The key wouldn't be a real key, that was too easy. It wasn't an object at all. Nothing that could be physically grasped. It was knowledge. Understanding.

He had to make sense of this insane world if he was to gain control over it.

So...if not a brain aneurysm, what other medical infliction could he have incurred, that meant he was still alive but somehow trapped inside his head?

His eyes scrunched tight, his face quivering beneath the weight of deductions, as he battled through theories and reasoning.

_Narrow it down._

He ignored his brother's voice this time. He was close. So very close.

It suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks and his head shot up with a gasp, his mouth shaping into a surprised O.

A coma?

Could he be in a coma?

He frowned. But...how?

He shook his head. No... _how_ was of no interest to him right now. If he had fallen into a coma there was only one priority.

Waking up.

He looked back towards the wall where Molly had disappeared. He knew now, who had hurt her. The evil that Moriarty spoke of. And he suspected that facing that evil, whoever or whatever it turned out to be, would be the key to waking up.

_The shadow moves though I be at rest._

If he was correct in his assumptions, and he strongly believed he was, the shadow was the evil, moving through his comatosed mind like a rampant disease, turning his Mind Palace upside down, slowly destroying it. It was responsible for him being at rest – being in a coma.

He hurried across to the wall, running a hand across the smooth plaster experimentally. Just like the window it was disturbingly cool to the touch. Could it have something to do with his body's condition in the real world, he wondered. He hoped that Mycroft had discovered him promptly and called an ambulance. Time was of the essence when it came to coma patients.

He promptly dismissed the outer world. It was the internal that he had to conquer. He had done enough hypothesising, it was now time for action. He narrowed his eyes in concentration.

When nothing happened, he focussed more intently, determined to gain the upper hand in his own bloody mind. His eyes began to water and blur with his intent, the wall swimming.

He blinked the sensation away, and started again.

"It's not going to be that easy, Sherlock."

Moriarty had returned. Sherlock could just make him out in his peripheral vision but refused to respond or rise to his bait this time. He continued to stare at the wall.

"It's too late. You've fallen too deep."

A triumphant smile tugged at Sherlock's lips when, finally, a door began to materialise in front of him. "On the contrary," he returned smugly, watching in fascination as the door became more and more solid.

_In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king._

The key was the simple acknowledgement that _he_ was in control.

"I wouldn't go through there if I were you."

Ignoring Moriarty's warning, Sherlock snatched at the door handle.

And it was now time to regain that control.

Moriarty's "Sherlock!" screamed after him as he fled through the door.


	8. Chapter 8

Before Sherlock had the chance to register anything of the room, it's contents or condition, he was alerted to movement. A door straight opposite his was in the process of being hastily shut, and the arm that was about to disappear, the sweater sleeve, was instantly recognisable.

"John!?"

He tore straight across the room, vaguely aware that it was large, bright and empty in his peripheral vision. Very similar to the last one.

The door slammed shut.

"John! Wait!"

Wrenching it open and rushing inside, Sherlock's eyes widened in confusion, his stomach lurching as he began plummeting down into darkness. This time it was no illusion. The room had been without a floor. The last thing he deduced before his breath was snatched from him, was that John must have been the illusion this time.

Fortunately, his fall was short. He slammed down to the ground within seconds, though the impact still took its toll and left him winded. As he lay, recovering, he heard sniggering. "Said I owed you a fall."

He groaned and not entirely through pain. Moriarty again. Was he going to pop up everywhere? "Call that a fall?" Sherlock wheezed. "I can do better myself."

"Thought that was clever, didn't you. Very clever. _Awfully_ clever."

Sherlock looked up, searching for the hole he must have fallen through. To his astonishment there was nothing. No evidence of his fall at all. There was just...ceiling. What was even stranger, the ceiling was barely a metre from his head. He reached up to touch it and it felt solid against his fingertips. There was no indication of any trap door. Nothing defined in the plaster.

He sat up a little groggily. He had been lying upon yet another disconcerting surface. A floor that didn't feel like a floor at all and, in fact, seemed to be moulding itself against his body. Bewildered, he brushed his hand across it, puzzled to find his fingers running through softly packed earth.

He blinked the room into focus. It quickly sobered him. He stared around in amazement.

He was sitting on a huge mound of earth. In fact, the room was almost completely filled with it. It was highest where he was sitting, at the back of the room, and he found himself staring down a gentle slope. A single grey lampshade hung down from the centre of the ceiling, though it was so close to the mound that its light was pitiful, swallowed by the earth.

At the bottom of the room, in the center of a grimy wall with peeling wallpaper, was a half buried door. To the right of it, in the corner of the room, sat Moriarty, grinning at him. He was still wearing his straitjacket, though it was even dirtier now.

Dazed, Sherlock shuffled down the earth, around the lampshade, towards the door, wondering if there was actually furniture buried beneath him, or any other doors. How the hell had so much earth managed to get into the room in the first place?

But this isn't real, he reminded himself. It's in your head. Anything was possible.

"Your mind really has gone ga-ga," Moriarty snickered. "It just gets better and better."

The door handle was only just buried and Sherlock quickly swept away the earth concealing it. There was a sizable lock beneath it but no key. He poked his little finger through it, clearing it of dirt, and contorted his body forward in an attempt to see through it. All he could make out was darkness.

He tested the handle. He suspected the door was unlocked but it opened inwards. The tons of earth pressing up against it was making it impossible to open.

"Warned you, didn't I," Moriarty scolded. "Told you not to go through the door. _But did you listen?"_

"Shut up!"

Sherlock glanced back at the room again. It really was the most bizarre place he had ever seen. Like a surrealist painting. It didn't quite defy logic, but it most certainly defied perception.

It was also the most unsettling place he had ever encountered. The room itself, though not small, felt claustrophobic because of all the earth. The walls felt as if they would close in on him at any moment. It reminded him of something you would find beneath a church or cathedral, a subterranean burial vault...a tomb. Backing up the theory, his sensitive nose was becoming increasingly conscious of the rank smell of the earth around him. The suggestion of decomposition was much stronger here.

His eyes flicked back to the buried door, eager to make his exit. If he had made one door appear, surely he could make another disappear.

He began to focus again, his brow furrowing in concentration.

"Oh, lookie what we've got here."

Sherlock tensed, part irritated, part wary. He turned reluctantly.

Moriarty had moved from his corner and was looming over something higher up the mound.

Sherlock watched him uneasily, not sure he wanted to see whatever it was that he was getting so excited about. He had a bad feeling. Moriarty was acting like a dog who had found a...bone.

He climbed back up the mound and stared down in horror at Moriarty's discovery.

A hand.

A bloodless, very dead, hand, nails encrusted with dirt. It was in the initial stages of decomposition, which would account for the smell he had detected, and it appeared to be connected to a body, though that body was hidden, buried beneath the earth.

Moriarty looked up at him gleefully. "Shall we see who it belongs to?"

Sherlock had seen countless dead bodies. He had spent hours in morgues, had kept severed heads and thumbs in his fridge, eyeballs in his microwave. He wasn't the least bit squeamish. But the sight of the hand, the knowledge that there was a body buried, decomposing, in this impossible room, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand rigid.

Moriarty glared at him impatiently. "If you're not going to look, at least untie me and let me."

"No!"

Sherlock quickly squatted down and leaned in closer. It was a male hand. The nails short and neat, well manicured, despite the grime. Age, roughly fifties, though it was difficult to pin it down exactly due to the degree of decomposition.

It wasn't John's, he acknowledged in relief. The fingers were too long. It was the hand of a tall man. Over six feet. And he didn't think it was Mycrofts, although his brother _was_ partial to a weekly manicure.

He tentatively began to clear away the earth, revealing the grimy sleeve of what had once been an expensive suit.

He swallowed nervously and began clearing higher up. It was the face he needed to see.

As Moriarty closed in eagerly, Sherlock's patience finally snapped. "Get away!"

Moriarty shuffled back to his corner in a sulk.

Sherlock's stomach coiled into a tight knot as he exposed a nose...a gaping mouth with dirt-blackened teeth... shattered spectacles...

He braced himself.

...bullet hole in the forehead.

Behind him, Moriarty mimicked the sound of a gunshot. "...and it's goodbye brains!"

Sherlock took a deep breath, hoping that the body would simply fade away, become another illusion, but a dozen pounding heartbeats later Magnussen's body was still there, half buried in the dirt, eyes staring vacantly.

Though he desperately wanted to, Sherlock couldn't tear his gaze away from the bullet hole. The bullet hole that _he_ had put there.

The gunshot exploded in his mind again. Magnussen's body slumping to the ground.

John's look of shock and despair.

He stood up shakily.

"There's more," Moriarty breathed menacingly.

Sherlock snapped his gaze onto him. "What?"

"They're all down here, you know."

"Who?"

"Every victim, of every case. All buried deep."

Sherlock felt cold as his eyes skimmed the earth. "Caring is not an advantage," he insisted hoarsely, but a perverse sense of morbid curiosity made him continue to search the mound for any other evidence of withered flesh peeking above the surface. The tightness in his stomach uncoiled fractionally when he detected nothing.

Moriarty's head lowered threateningly, his eyes blazing like burning coals. "But he's a bit different." He nodded towards Magnussen.

"Let's play a game," Moriarty imitated Sherlock. "Let's play _murder."_

"There was no alternative," Sherlock insisted angrily, though he was aware that he was sweating beneath his heavy coat. "He would have destroyed John and Mary!"

"Oh, don't apologise. Daddy is proud of his little Sherlock." Moriarty smiled smugly. "Looking forward to the next one."

"There won't be another one!"

Moriarty shook his head sympathetically. "Got a taste now. A taste for killing."

He sidled up to Sherlock again, staring at him imploringly. "Let's dig up another one."

"Get away from me!"

Sherlock scrambled back down the mound towards the door. He had to get away. Get out of this room. This giant grave. He had to find whatever evil was doing this inside his head. He had to destroy it so he could put an end to this crazy twisted world and restore order.

So he could wake up.

He focused on the door again. Narrowed his eyes in concentration. Strained to will away the door.

_I am in control,_ he reassured himself.

_I am in control._

The door remained.

He frowned impatiently. Why wasn't it working this time?

After several unsuccessful attempts, he slammed his hands into the earth.

"One step forward, two steps back," Moriarty mocked from behind him. "Doesn't it just make you want to _kill_ yourself!"

Giving up on will alone, Sherlock scrutinised the door. His hand reached out to assess its surface, running his fingers along its frame. Perhaps he could weaken it somehow. The earth might have destabilized it, warped the wood, damaged the hinges.

He sat down in the dirt, bent his legs, and slammed his feet into the door. The impact surged excruciatingly up his legs but didn't produce so much as a dent, not even a splinter, in the wood.

Panicking shamefully now, disturbingly conscious of Magnussen's rotting body behind him, of the countless other bodies lying buried beneath the earth, he smashed into the door a second time, as hard as he could, oblivious to the pain it caused.

"Open, damn you!"

**************************************

John awoke with a jolt. Momentarially disorientated, his eyes darted edgily around the room, taking in the hospital bed, Sherlock's sleeping body, the beeping machines and whirring monitors.

"John?"

His met Mary's gaze and she smiled reassuringly. "You nodded off. I thought I'd let you sleep."

"How long have I been out?"

"Only about ten minutes."

He stood up and stretched the kinks out of his neck. "No change?"

"I would have woken you if there had."

He smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, 'course you would."

He walked across to Sherlock's bed and stared down at him thoughtfully, though disappointment glistened in his eyes. "I thought I heard him call out." He rubbed the back of his neck restlessly. "Must have been a dream."

"Yeah?" Mary returned gently. "What did he say?"

"I can't remember. It wasn't distinctive. Just him shouting something." He forced a smile though there was no humour on his face. "But he sounded pretty pissed. I think it was what woke me."

"Well you certainly woke with a start. Made me jump."

John glanced back at his wife, guilt overwhelming him as he acknowledged just how tired and drawn she looked. "You should go home. Get some rest."

"What about you?" But he could see by the resigned look on her face that she already knew what he would say.

"I'm staying."

"But John...you don't know how long he's going to be like this."

"I'm staying," he repeated firmly.

"You need some rest too."

"I can sleep in the chair."

Mary slowly rose, and he hurried back to help her. Standing face to face, he clasped her hands tightly. His expression spoke volumes, the conflict in his eyes, the tight line of his mouth, the rigidness of his jaw, she could see how torn he was. "I feel such a shit. It's Christmas Day."

She shook her head sadly. "No, John. I understand. After what he did for us. Well, if it wasn't for this," she lightly tapped her stomach, "I'd stay with you."

John leaned forward to softly kiss her on the lips.

Mary moved around to whisper in his ear. "A quick shower, a little sleep, and then I'll come back. OK."

As she withdrew, John kissed her again. "A long sleep. Doctor's orders."

She squeezed his hands. "He will wake up, John. I know he will. He's made of the tough stuff."

They both glanced across at Sherlock.

"But that's just the problem," John returned anxiously. "I fear that deep down, he isn't. He really isn't. And this is the result."

**************************************

"You're weak," Moriarty sneered as Sherlock slammed into the door again without success, his face shining from his exertions, his hair damp, plastered to his forehead.

"You're on the side of the angels."

One last try, Sherlock told himself, and then he was going to ring Moriarty's irritating little neck.

"Angels are sissies."

Face quivering, contorting with intent, he smashed his feet into the door. "Open!"

Crying out in surprise, Sherlock was suddenly swept forward on a rush of earth. It flooded through the doorway, like blood gushing from a wound, half burying him in the process.

He instinctively rolled to his left, smacking hard into something low and solid, as earth surged into the new room. He quickly twisted, rising breathlessly up onto all fours, immediately turning to look back.

He sighed his relief. He hadn't been forced to smash open the door after all. It had finally disappeared.

He was still in control.

But his satisfied smile was promptly gutted when he turned to face his new destination.

He could see now, what it was he had knocked into.

John's chair.

John's torn, broken, upturned chair.

Rising to his feet, he brushed the dirt from his coat and mechanically returned John's chair to its proper position, though the damage it had incurred made it stand at an awkward angle.

With a lump in his throat, he slowly took in the ruins of 221B Baker Street.


	9. Chapter 9

Although he knew it wasn't real, that it was simply another symptom of his comatosed mind, Sherlock's chest tightened as his steely gaze roamed the room. At the toppled bookshelves and crushed furnishings, the upturned chairs sprouting rusted springs, the collapsed fireplace choking with bricks, and the shattered mirror reflecting the carnage in every one of its dagger shaped shards.

He glanced towards the kitchen, at the flattened table covered in the battered remains of his scientific apparatus, tubes and bottles smashed, his beloved microscope twisted out of shape. At the gaping fridge with its door hanging on its hinges. At the work surfaces covered with broken crockery and thick with masonry dust.

But it wasn't simply the devastation. It was the torturous fact that his home, the one place he could genuinely call home, had manifested into a place of neglect; of abandonment. What appeared, visually at least, to be years...decades...of gradual decline.

The walls were dense with vegetation that had broken in through numerous cracks and fractures in the crumbling plaster. Vines and ivy and other trailing plants, that inch by inch had crept purposely down the wallpaper to overwhelmed the room, smothering pictures, burying bureaus and display cases, coiling like snakes around lamps and artifacts...even through the slack strings of his splintered violin.

Sections of floorboard had warped beyond recognition, the rotten wood rupturing up through the perished rugs like miniature volcanoes. Books were strewn around them, some balancing precariously upon their jagged tips, seconds away from being swallowed. Most of them had a greenish tinge, a fine layer of mould that shrouded everything mercilessly, like a dust cover coveting a forsaken room.

Sherlock stooped down to retrieve one of the volumes. Just like the books in the corridor it had no title, either on its cover or spine, and he was eager to know if it were empty of content too.

Though it was modern in appearance, it felt fragile in his hand, as it it were an ancient tome, hundreds of years old. He brought it up to his nose and sniffed, recognising the same musty, malodourous smell that had dominated the stairs and corridor. Easing open the cover he began to turn the empty pages, only to watch them crumble away between his fingers.

He scrunched his eyes angrily, attempting to regain an element of control again. To will away this monstrosity of a room and restore it to what it should be. He focused upon the real Baker Street flat. The crackle of the fire. The bubbling of liquid over a Bunsen burner. Mrs Hudson's fussing. John's companionable presence. All of the warmth and familiarity he could muster. He longed for its normality. It's logic and order.

But he already knew that he was wasting his time. He could sense it; feel it. The despair in the room. It was still all wrong. It would take him some time to truly regain control over his inner world again.

With an air of resignation, he stood up, allowing the book to slip from his hands. It fell, with a dull thud, back to the floor, while the disintegrated fragments of pages took a couple of seconds longer, fluttering slowly down around his feet.

It was then that he noticed the dangerous glint of dark metal amongst the debris.

He froze.

John's gun.

He stared down at it for what seemed like an eternity, before he finally snapped out of his daze and reached for it.

His hand felt clammy against the cold hard alloy as he checked the number of bullets. When he discovered that one was missing he instinctively glanced back towards the room where he had discovered Magnussen's body.

It still made for an incredibly surreal sight. Earth continued to spew into the flat through the gaping doorway, though it was more sluggish now, like a flow of larva that had begun to cool. He half expected to see Magnussen standing at its base, alive and gloating, but there was no sign of him or anyone else.

As Sherlock peered back down at the gun again, the bullet hole in Magnussen's forehead flashed into his mind. Taking a deep breath he forced the image away and quickly slipped the gun into his coat pocket.

Maneuvering his way around the mangled furniture, the windows caught his attention next. Shredded curtains hung limply from their age-warped rails, but between them there was no view at all, only that same white nothingness that had been in the room he had found Molly. The light was more muted here though, and he wondered if that was a bad sign. Could a fading light in his internal world mean that he was weakening in the real world?

The idea prompted him back into action, reminding him that time was short. He hurried for the exit, wherever that door might take him. He had a hunch it wouldn't take him down a flight of stairs and out onto Baker Street.

When he opened the door, however, he was proven wrong. The familiar flight of stairs were there, the same as always, and unlike the flat, they were completely unscathed. Unable to resist the compulsion, he counted the number of steps. Even they were exact.

Their normality made Sherlock uneasy. He had grown so accustomed to the bizarre that he felt this sudden anomaly wasn't what it seemed. That something was wrong with this set up, it just hadn't been triggered yet.

But as he stepped cautiously out onto the landing, he suddenly had another thought. Maybe his earlier attempt at regaining control had worked, but only after a fashion, only out here rather than in the room itself.

Whatever the reason, his body was tense, his senses heightened, as he slowly ascended, gripping the banister tightly with one hand, keeping the other splayed against the wall.

When he reached the bottom safely, he peered back up the stairs in surprise.

That was easy.

Too easy.

So predictably on cue that Sherlock would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't been turning with a start, a noise suddenly snared his attention. He tilted his head a fraction, directing an ear towards it.

What was it? A scraping sound? His brow knotted as he listened intently. Yes...something hard and sharp, scratching wooden floorboards. He leaned closer, detecting a slight discrepancy, amending his deduction to several somethings.

He raised an eyebrow dubiously when he acknowledged where it was coming from. The basement flat. This time he did roll his eyes. How very cliched. He knew for certain that he was no longer in control. His mind had more originality than that.

The scraping stopped, only to begin again more zealously.

He prayed that it wasn't the return of Moriarty. He had tolerated enough of his shenanigans.

The sound was then replaced by another. This time a whine... low and pitiful. Not human.

An animal?

He held his breath, but not through fear, rather hope.

Redbeard?


End file.
